


Fluid

by urbanMystic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, F/F, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Pale Makeouts, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, lesbian meteor shitfest, ooc dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanMystic/pseuds/urbanMystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porrim gives relationship advice to the other girls. Though its the same advice every time, she learns to trust her words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whisperwhisk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperwhisk/gifts).



> Whisperwhisk, You should be forewarned that my style drifted really far into prose poetry territory. If anything is obscure to the point of being illegible, please let me know and I will make edits.
> 
> Thanks as always to Daxolotl for editing.

You hate labels. You really, really do. In the bubbles, especially, they seem irrelevant. Everything is copied and pasted from memories, so words shift meaning based on who you've met and which of those who's you have met and your memories have started to run together with the memories of which whos you have met and the whos you have met and their memories. Every meeting is your only way of expanding and that is the only thing about this afterlife that makes sense to you: expanding into other people like water into new riverbeds, quenching the dirt with words that no one can hide anymore.

So when you meet Kanaya you are overjoyed that she sees your memories. You want her to know you by the stone of your old home and the way your heels clack nervousness across the floor. You want her to know your poise and your claws by the postmortem memories of blood on your walls. She sees, even if she doesn't think she remembers, the bubbles know that she remembers, and it will come up again when she visits other people and talks about you.

So when she comes to you for the first time, its blood everywhere: blood relation, blood drinker, hot-blooded. The meeting of graceful fashion-lovers has become a stare down. Who will admit their hungry nature first? 

"I was hoping to ask for your advice, actually?" Her words stumble out after introductions and you don't know what to make of it.

You cradle her with your response, "Love yourself for who you are, not what you wish you were."

Doubt cradles you in turn, but she goes to be patient, so very patient, holding the viscous unknown of her love for Rose, the fermenting sack of adoration for Vriska, letting it be, letting it flow in small gestures. Rose delights in showing these touches to you, and you feel the pack ice loosen somewhere inside.

Kanaya lets herself be around Rose without needing to kiss, lets herself flitter from shoulders brushing and hands accidentally bumping into each other, restrains herself from kissing the seer, restrains herself from declaring love when all she is sure about is a palpitation and a song. She lets herself be restraint, and it holds the love like rain in the soil. She could drink this forever.

You hear about this later from your dancestor and it adds a couch to your memories.

As Rose comes and goes with Kanaya, you see the pain behind her eyes but say nothing until she also asks.

The Seer turns to you and she does ask, "What do I do about Vriska?"

You think about it for a moment, mull over the books Rose perennially carries with her, the binding invading your memories and becoming part of your own hive, stories so well-remembered you can pick them up and read them front to back. You think about the blueblood and her own pain, the spider's gaze over her smile, and you let yourself say what you always say.

"Do not love words more than your relationships. Love her for what she is, not what you can name her." Will the words make sense? Surety is the best give you have for her, your queer human sister, this beloved eldritch-touched life. Kanaya will come later with your relief, a cool mist of a story about Rose having no clue what to do with Vriska and kissing her anyway.

It does not surprise you to hear about Vriska knocking the soporific away from Rose's hand, and though Rose tells the story with nonchalance, her memories betray her, showing you the mother she had lost to the drink and to death. You see the cup knocked out of the human's hand and you see the fluid shine on the floor, grief spilling out instead of being consumed over and over. Tears make for a thin broth, you know.

It does not surprise you to see Vriska. But it's more that you go to her. You want to see her, one day, in her memories. There is a dead spider lusus in front of her, a behemoth that would have been capable of consuming yours. You see a smaller version of the Thief in front of her, though not by much, and you wonder why you had been chosen to see this memory of all the others.

The Blood drains into the ocean water below, the lusus that knew no compassion but only survival draining into an ocean that knew no bounds, the profane realm of highblood privilege, an afterlife not of memories but of desecration.

You say nothing, only look. You are deep in your gaze, letting the current take you in. Vriska, young mistress of storm waters, turns.

"I could not love him. Could not deepen myself for a boy who gave me every scrap of his pitiful coward's spine." She won't cry and she won't look away from what she is, not now. "I could never bleed for a lover that knew every step of the waltz but not of my current. Yet I bend every which way to feel the lips of pale girls. I know the depth are there. The flush vase can hold the rain of Him, but these girls do not gather there. Who am I? Do you See me?"

You knew her. "Love those kisses for that they are, rebels in the pastel affection of your fingers weaving. Survivor, Thief, love them when they see your fists and know the pleasure of being clenched in those fingers like a memory. You are a bruise, an armor, a fang, and can never be a companion in peacetime, but love them when they come to your bite."

Her old tyrant faded from your sight and you parted ways. Did you speak out of turn? Had you been to emboldened? Happily, life went on without your wispy heart: tussling over who is close to whom, hand entwining, lips meeting for gratitude, for plush scent, for gentle frustration, and they ran into each other like rivulets, like rivers, like ocean currents. You watched, memories expanding your world from each story and encounter, rolling over each other with blood over skin and silence. You watched and no one came for you, but you stood.

Terezi came eventually, and you are incredulous. "Seer, you already Know."

"What I don't know is you. Your words keep threading us together as surely as Vriska's cackling. What brought my sister to me? My fellow Seer? My own Drinker? I have been Seen and Plumbed and Coated, but you I cannot fathom. Tell me."

It takes you a moment, but now you know you can trust your words. You were not wrong to point them to the font of your own comfort, for they have taken comfort there, taken a burden from your vessel and given it a purpose. If it is your words she wants, blind justice is welcome to them. It is good that she should know, after all, what options lay before her.

"Love your doubts for what they are," You reply, "Be with them."


End file.
